1635: Music and Murder (61 page)

Gotthilf reacted to Byron's smile with an uncertain smile of his own. "Let me guess: we go to talk to these people."

"Right. Here's the addresses. Let's go."

****

They turned away from the next to the last address on their list. "All children accounted for and healthy," Gotthilf muttered as he pulled the address list out one last time. "We're down to one Lubbold Vogler."

"It's called the process of elimination," Byron assured him. "You work through all the possibilities until you arrive at the one that fits. So, we've eliminated all the others, we should get our answers from Herr Vogler at this last address."

But the face that opened the door at their knock disappointed them. "No, no Vogler here."

"Did he live here before you, do you know?"

"No." And the door was firmly closed.

They stepped down to the street. "Where do we go from here?" Gotthilf wondered.

Byron looked around with narrowed eyes. "C'mon. And think of a question you can ask." Gotthilf followed him over to an old man sitting on a step, one hand on a cane and another holding his pipe. The up-timer nodded his head to the old man. "Good afternoon,
Großvater
. I am Lieutenant Chieske, and this is Herr Hoch."

"Fuchs," the old man grunted around the stem of his pipe.

"Herr Fuchs, we are searching for one . . . " Byron turned to Gotthilf, who fumbled the paper out of his pocket. "Lubbold Vogler."

Herr Fuchs took the pipe from his mouth and spat expressively.

"Does he live there?" Byron pointed to the house they had just left.

"Nay."

"Did he live there?"

"Aye."

"Do you know where he went?"

"Nay."

"Did he have some small children?"

The old man finally showed some expression, as his mouth tightened. "Aye."

Byron looked to Gotthilf. He had been smiling at the sight of Byron meeting someone even stingier with words than the up-timer, but now realized he was supposed to ask something. "Um . . . er . . . when did he leave?" He was gratified when Byron nodded in approval.

Herr Fuchs thought for a moment. "Three years ago."

"Did he say where he was going when he left?"

"Nay." They waited a moment, but the old man said nothing more.

"Thank you for your time." Byron held out his hand for Herr Fuchs to shake. "You've been very helpful."

They turned to leave, and the old man took the pipe from his mouth again. "If you find him, tell him I remember he still owes me twenty pfennig. And give him a lick from me for the way he beat those children." He clenched his teeth around the pipe stem again and gave them a firm nod, which they returned.

"Well," Byron breathed. "Well, well, well, well, well." Gotthilf looked up to him as he tried to keep up with the up-timer's long strides. "I do believe we've found our man."

"Found?"

"Well, so to speak. It appears we have a name for him, which is more than we had. Now we just need to truly find him."

"And how do we do that?"

"We go back to the street tomorrow and talk to Willi. One way or another, we'll find Herr Vogler through him." Gotthilf watched as Byron's face turned cold again; colder even than the other day. "And then we'll have a little talk."

The ice in Byron's voice caused the down-timer to shiver.

****

Gotthilf couldn't decide if Lieutenant Chieske looked preoccupied in the early morning light, or if he was just sleepy.

"Do you have a gun?" Byron asked.

"The musket belongs to the city."

"No." Byron shook his head. "I meant a handgun; a pistol."

"I have a pistol," Gotthilf replied. "One of the new percussion cap revolvers from Suhl."

"A Hockenjoss and Klott?"

Gotthilf nodded.

"Got it with you?"

Byron held out his hand. Gotthilf, with mingled pride and embarrassment, pulled the pistol from his pocket and handed it to him. He watched as the up-timer handled it. The young man took a great deal of pride in his new pistol, although he thought it a bit plain. It still bothered him, however, that he had been forced to settle for the silver-chased model with bone handles. His father had made it very clear that their family was not named among the
Hoch-Adel
, so there would be no gilded toys.

"A good weapon." Byron handed it back. "A little too pretty for my taste, though." Gotthilf was unable to keep his astonishment at the up-timer's reaction from his face. Byron laughed, producing by what seemed sleight of hand a weapon from underneath his jacket "Now this is what I would call a good pistol. None of that fancy work on it that has to be kept polished and clean."

Gotthilf stared at the pistol. It wasn't pretty. It was all metal, and looked like a slab with no decorative work on it. No gold or silver chasing, no carved ivory or woodwork. Just pure function—to shoot, perhaps to kill. A chill ran down his spine at the sight of it.

"Keep yours with you all the time now." Byron made his disappear again. "And Gotthilf," Byron started to turn away, "make sure it's loaded."

****

Erna watched as Willi tried to argue with Uncle.

"But Uncle . . . "

"No, I said! You will not go out, not with those . . . those . . . spies looking for you."

"But . . . " Willi started.

"No!" A slap knocked Willi against the wall, where he slid to the floor. "Now do as I say."

Uncle looked at the huddled boy for a long moment, then turned away and left the room. Free to move without the glare of Uncle's gaze being on her, Erna hurried to Willi's side and helped him sit up.

"Are you all right?" She pulled his head around to see where he had been hit. Willi's ear was a bright red, so that must have been where the slap landed. "Are you all right, Willi?" she whispered.

Willi tried to stand, then folded up again. "'M dizzy," he murmured.

Erna helped him over to their corner and covered him with their blankets after he laid down. She crouched by his head. "Willi?"

"Mmm?"

"Willi, don't you try to talk to Uncle for a while. He's . . . something's not going right for him. I heard men yelling in the back of the house a couple of nights ago. It woke me up. The back door slammed, then he came into our room and stood by the front door for the longest time."

She shivered, remembering what the light from the other room had revealed. "Willi . . . Willi, he had a gun. A pistol."

"Why would Uncle have a gun?" Willi slurred.

"I don't know," Erna replied, still whispering. "But he does. And it scares me."

"Mmm."

A long moment of quiet passed.

"Willi?" There was no response. Erna checked to see if he was breathing. He was, so she guessed he'd gone to sleep or passed out. She wiggled around, then sat with her arms around her knees, waiting until Uncle told her to go do her work.

She hadn't been able to tell Willi the most important part. After Willi had been knocked to the floor, Uncle had stared at him, cold and hard. Then he'd put his hand in his pocket and started to take out his gun, only to stop and, after a moment, slide it back in.

That scared Erna more than anything.

****

The space outside the bakery was empty. They loitered in the area until well past the time that they had seen Willi before. Gotthilf watched as Byron's lips tightened in frustration.

A large woman appeared in the doorway of the bakery, looking up the street. Byron elbowed Gotthilf. "Come on." She looked to them with a frown as they approached.

"Your pardon, Frau . . . " Byron began.

"Frau Kreszentia Traugottin. And you are?"

Byron introduced them as city officials looking into various irregularities. "I see that the boy is not here today.

The woman's frown turned thunderous. "You're not looking to harass Willi, are you?"

"No, no, indeed not," Byron soothed. "We want to talk to him because we think he knows something that will help us. And we want to make sure he's being taken care of. It bothers us that a child that young is begging in the streets."

Gotthilf watched as Byron's conversation with Frau Kreszentia—"call me Zenzi"—elicited the information that no, she didn't know where Willi lived; no, she didn't know anything about an uncle; yes, the last few months he had been here almost every day; and yes, he always came from one direction, often with another youngster leading him.

The conversation drew to a close. "Bide," Frau Zenzi said as she stepped back into the bakery. She returned a moment later with two rolls, to hand one to each of them. "You find my Willi, you make sure he is all right, you tell him his place is still here. Yes?"

They assured her they would do exactly that and took their leave. Munching on his roll, Gotthilf looked back to see her standing in the door of the bakery, looking after them.

Gotthilf swallowed the last of his roll. "For someone who doesn't like to talk," he commented to Byron, "you certainly are proficient at it."

Byron paused in licking his fingers. "Just because I can do it doesn't mean I want to." He finished the finger licking, and continued, "And you'd better have been paying attention, because you're going to start doing all the talking and question asking soon." Gotthilf stared at the up-timer with wide eyes. Byron returned a grin. "Yep. Count on it. You'll talk; I'll just stand around and look threatening."

"Ha." Still strolling down the street, Gotthilf looked up and stiffened. "Byron." He tried very hard not to shout or act excited. "Isn't that the boy who pulled Willi away from us?"

Byron directed a casual glance that direction. "Yep. Now look away." They did so. "The trick is to not stare at the person, but to look that way just often enough to keep him in sight. Except in this case I think it's a her."

"What?" Gotthilf absorbed another surprise. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I've been around girls in pants all my life, so to me they're not the automatic disguise for a girl they are for you down-timers." That was the first time Gotthilf could remember Byron using that term. He noted in passing that it was used in a neutral manner. "Girls move differently than boys, even that young. And if you look at her hands, from what I remember they're slenderer than a boy's usually are. So, I think that's a girl." Gotthilf absorbed that as well.

There was a moment of silence.

"Gotthilf?"

"Aye?"

"What's she doing out here? I mean, it looks like she's sound and healthy. She ought to be in school, right? Or in some kind of service?"

"Yes. She should definitely not be out on the street in boy's clothes." Gotthilf was starting to understand what Byron had meant about looking for things that didn't fit the pattern.

"So," Byron hissed, "we have two weirdnesses now—a boy begging who shouldn't be, and a girl dressed in boy clothes who is . . . "

At that exact moment they both saw the girl snatch a kerchief from the pocket of a man she bumped into. She was so fast they barely caught a flash of it before it was stuffed inside her jacket.

Gotthilf saw that Byron's face had gone very grim as he muttered a string of words in up-time English. Gotthilf didn't recognize the words, but he recognized the tone. If some of them weren't blasphemous, he'd eat his hat. "Okay," Byron said after he had to stop for breath, "that's the third strike. Now I really, really want to talk to Uncle."

"So do we take the girl now?" That was Gotthilf's instinctive reaction, but he'd been with Byron enough by now to realize that might not be the best thing to do.

"No." Byron shook his head. "No, I'm starting to get a bad feeling about this. I want you to hustle back and get Captain Reilly and at least a couple more guys, either Army or city watch, I don't care, as long as they've got pistols. No muskets. You get there and back as fast as you can. If Bill wants to know what's going on, you just say I said to get here now." Gotthilf opened his mouth. "Go!"

Gotthilf went.

****

It was over half an hour before Gotthilf arrived back at Byron's side, accompanied by Bill Reilly, two of the city watch and another up-timer. Completing the crew was Otto Gericke, who had been talking to Bill when Gotthilf had burst into his office, panting and wheezing from his run.

Byron met them back up the street, waving them to the side of a house on the west side.

"Is she still here?" Gotthilf asked.

"What's up?" Bill was matter of fact as the men gathered around.

"Possible faginy racket. Got a girl in boy's clothes working as a dip down the street. Pretty sure she's got a mule—think I've got him pegged. We think the same bunch had a blind kid out here begging a few days ago. Girl came and pulled him away, nobody's seen him since."

Bill pulled at his chin. "So, what do you want to do?"

"Follow the girl home. Both she and the boy mentioned someone named 'Uncle.'"

"Ah. You think he's the fagin?"

"Best guess."

"What is this 'faginy'?" Gericke asked. Gotthilf listened closely as Captain Reilly described a plan to teach children to perform criminal acts for the gain of those who taught them. He also explained that a 'dip' was a pickpocket and a 'mule' was someone who would take stolen goods from the 'dip,' reducing the risk that the pickpocket would be caught with them.

"This 'Uncle' is the man who would do this?" Gericke was frowning. The captain nodded. "I want this man."

"So do we, Master Gericke. So do we." Reilly turned back to Byron. "So, what's the plan, Lieutenant?"

"Gotthilf and I go first. The rest of you follow at least a half block behind, in more than one group. Once we find the place, we figure out what to do next."

"I am a magistrate," Gericke said. "You will be under my authority."

Byron's smile was sharp-edged. "Thank you, sir. That will make things easier."

So it was that Gotthilf found himself once more at Lieutenant Chieske's side, walking down the street with the girl barely in sight ahead of them. The late afternoon shadows were unfolding, and she disappeared and reappeared as she moved in and out of them.

Unfortunately, her route was not straight. Turning the third corner, Byron muttered, "Man, I wish we had radios." Gotthilf was confused again—a state that was all too familiar the past few days of working with the up-timer. Byron caught his expression. "No, I don't mean the crystal radios, I mean . . . oh, forget it, I'll explain later. Might as well be wishing for cars, while I'm at it."